Balalaika
by Tiger Tank
Summary: Just some random scribble.  An exercise in character development and interactions.  Rated "M", since the Halo games are rated "M".


**Disclaimer**: Bungie owns the Halo franchise. Not me. I only own this story and certain elements of the story (e.g.: non-Halo-canonical characters, technical specifics (or techno-babble)..._et cetera_). Please do not sue the author, as this piece of fan-fiction is intended solely for private entertainment purposes only, and is _not_ to be used to gain any profit, whatsoever. Plus, the author is poor as hell. Any unauthorized reproduction or modification of this piece-of-crap-fanfic is strongly discouraged. This piece of fan fiction may contain explicit content that may not be suitable for minors nor immature readers - and may not be legal for people of certain ages to view, within certain counties or states. If you're either a pansy or you're underage or immature, I suggest you hit the "Back" button on your internet browser. _Nao_.

**tl;dr**: Bungie owns _Halo_. Author essentially owns the non-canonical elements in this story. Please don't sue. Don't be a thieving douche. And don't be a wimp. If you can't understand some of the big words I'm using, you're too damned stupid or young to be reading this. GTFO my innernets.

**Author's Notes**: _**Please hold all questions and comments until after reading the author's comments/notes at the end of each chapter/update**_**.** Don't waste my time (or yours, for that matter) with questions I've already answered. If you don't understand something after reading it several dozen times over, or if you spot a typo, then feel free to bring it to my attention - preferably in a polite and concise manner.

Note: This is just a short story (read: "crap") that I randomly did, set within an alternate take on the Halo universe that I've been working on.

_Balalaika_

**The "Blue Zone," UNSC Colony Miridem  
2544, UNSC Military Calendar**

_Why am I here_? While capable of being a philosophical, thought-evoking question, Petty Officer Second Class SPARTAN-141 sought a much more secular, a more worldly answer. Clad in her jet-black Navy uniform, the shining SPARTAN-II insignia at her breast, she marched purposefully toward the massive staging area where elements of the UNSC Army's Behemoth task force had set up shop: in a run-down warehouse district on the edge of the sprawling planetary capital. A plastic-sheathed sheet of paper bore the words "_UNSC ARMY 2__ND__ BCT"_ in large, bold print. Somewhere in the area, a set of high-volume speakers pounded out a percussive racket that ostensibly passed for music. The SPARTAN-II leapt from where she stood, and vaulted over the short, three-meter chain-link fence—it was a pitifully inadequate barrier. Miridem was somehow deemed to be under imminent danger from the Covenant—how or why this was the case, she had no idea, but this was not the answer she was looking for, either.

_Why _am_ I here?_

SPARTAN-141—or "Cal", as she was known to her fellow SPARTAN-IIs, reminded herself of the consensus that the others had come to. For their own future reference, the SPARTANs were to reconnoiter the local area and its terrain, locate and map strategic points of interest, and to assess the capabilities of their allies in the Army and Air Force. This was all to be done within the next forty-eight hours—perhaps twelve hours too long for a SPARTAN-II. Over the past thirty hours, Cal had already found and logged several major defilades and chokepoints, as well as a few choice sniping positions. She'd decided to scope out the local aerodrome, but there hadn't been much there—apart from a few privately owned prop planes and light cargo-haulers. The only Air Force installation in the region had been an understaffed recruitment office.

Currently, the platinum-blonde petty officer was on her way back to the barracks where her compatriots had agreed to rendezvous. She'd already seen the nearby billet of the Marine Expeditionary Brigade when she and her teammates had embarked on their intelligence-gathering sortie, earlier in the day. The ground-based component of the Marine Corps expeditionary force boasted an entire tank company. Without a doubt, the Marines were some of the finest soldiers that humanity had to offer, but she felt a great deal of unexplainable animosity from them. Many of them had regarded her with disgust or distrust—and quite a few of them, even a lowly private, had openly ignored her. Technically, the Marine Corps was a part of the Navy, but they treated her like an outsider. Indeed, _all_ of the SPARTAN-IIs she'd spoken with had encountered such hostility at some point or another throughout their collective military careers. She briefly glanced at the eagle on her breast as the setting sun glinted—pondering. _If we're supposed to be allies_, she wondered, _why do they treat me like a hostile?_

Now, she had to scope out the much larger Army contingent. At first glance, they weren't very impressive—like most Army units, even the ones headquartered on Reach, the majority of these sorry excuses for soldiers were ostensibly conscripts who played the role of mechanized infantry. They wore a mix of brown or olive drab shirtsleeves, and OD-green trousers, with widely varying styles of boots. Their attitudes, however, seemed very different. Some of the Army troopers stood to and attempted to salute her, or respectfully recognized her through some other non-verbal gesture. Some of them greeted even the Spartan with smiles and verbal greetings. Only a few of them broke off their conversations to stare at her in silence, suspicion and wariness visible in their eyes. A handful of others gave her dazed, peculiar looks that briefly and inexplicably flustered her. One of the men, a handsome officer, had even smiled winked at her. It was a very puzzling and varied group, here—very relaxed. Cal was appalled at their sloppy carelessness, but at the same time she was inexplicably relieved that they weren't treating her like an enemy.

As she strode through the encampment, she overheard the distinct strumming of a very familiar stringed instrument through the booming, thunderous noise. Memories Cal had thought forgotten came back to her in a flood. Before she knew what she was doing, she increased her pace, her heart racing, zeroing in on the source thanks to her enhanced hearing. Within one of the warehouses, a handful of musicians sat on pallets, tables, piles of nondescript sacks, and crates—each holding an instrument in his or her hands. With a graceful ease that belied her size, she stealthily slipped through the door and took in the interior of the structure. In a cleared-out section, away from the stacked shelves, several Army troopers danced slowly, inexpertly. A dark-haired man clad in coveralls seemed especially self-conscious and uneasy, despite the reassuring smile on his partner's heart-shaped face. Another trooper sang a sweet, heart-aching tenor, in a foreign language she vaguely recognized.

The SPARTAN-II leaned against the wall, not quite listening or watching, overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia. Her senses were assailed by visions of festivals, brightly festooned and decorated booths, couples whirling in unison in the town square as a similar group of musicians played. Tears began to blur her vision, and Cal shut her eyes as she choked back a sob. She'd had memories and thoughts of home, before—but during her harsh SPARTAN-II training and indoctrination, she had learned to shut them out, to focus on the moment at hand, on accomplishing her mission, and on staying alive.

For the first time in over twenty years, she was reminded of home, and had no way to suppress the aching sadness and longing that was clawing at her chest. Squeezing her eyes shut, she held a hand over her mouth and sobbed quietly as the song finished. Another slow song played, but the singer had fallen silent. Cal-141 sensed an approaching presence and opened her eyes. The singer, who was evidently a sergeant, stood before her, gazing up at her with a pair of water bottles held in one hand.

'Are you all right, miss?' the sergeant asked in clipped accented tones. Cal struggled to regain her composure. The non-com simply waited.

'Yes,' the SPARTAN-II finally whispered, swallowing hard. The Army non-com proffered a clean handkerchief, which she accepted.

'But this is unusual,' the sergeant said in a low voice. As Cal dabbed at her eyes, a part of her mind finally placed his East-European accent. Was he from a garrison on Reach? 'You are Navy, yes? What are you doing here with us lowly mudsloggers, heh?'

'I…got lost…' Cal offered lamely. Chuckling, the fellow non-com handed her a water bottle—it was unopened, so she carefully twisted off the cap and took a cautious sip. She glanced at his nametape as he took a swig from his own water bottle. 'Thank you, Sergeant Malashenko.'

'Please, feel free to call me _Kulya_, Petty Officer.'

'Call me _Cal_,' the SPARTAN-II paused in thought, taking another sip, 'that song you sang just now…'

'It is old Russian song. "_Podmoskvonye Vechera_."' The sergeant noticed her bafflement and explained, 'translated, it means "Midnight in Moscow."'

'It's nice,' Cal replied with a small smile. 'Your singing is very nice.'

'You flatter me, Petty Officer Cal,' Malashenko arched an eyebrow, 'but I did not expect any tears for my performance.' He grinned, 'was it that bad?' The sergeant guffawed as the petty officer wordlessly and emphatically shook her head. A dark-haired woman walked up and embraced Malashenko from behind, pecking him on the cheek. Cal felt a tiny prick of disappointment, without understanding why.

'Kulya, there you are! That was wonderful.' Cal noted that the newcomer was also a sergeant, shorter than Malashenko, and her chestnut hair was cropped short. 'So this is where you have been hiding—and with such a pretty girl, too, you scoundrel!' Malashenko laughed and kissed the young woman, eliciting a blush from Cal.

'Aleksandra Badanova, this is Petty Officer Cal—a new fan of mine,' Sergeant Malashenko indicated the SPARTAN with a tilt of his head. Aleksandra smiled as Kulya hugged her and looked at the petty officer. 'Cal, this is Specialist Aleksandra Badanova, our platoon medic.'

The petty officer nodded politely.

'You are so very tall.' The petty officer tensed as Badanova scrutinized her. Abruptly, the medic sniffled and broke down into tears, 'I see. That is why, Kulya—she is like a super model! She has much longer legs than I!' Cal stared at the shorter woman in bewilderment, unsure of how to react.

'Uh—'

'Aleksandra—' Kulya started to protest.

'And she is so _fair_,' the young woman wailed melodramatically. Clutching Malashenko's shirt and shaking him like a ragdoll, Aleksandra continued railing against the sergeant, 'she has such beautiful hair and a fine face! Oh, Kulya, how could you do this to me? I cannot believe you, you shameless womanizer!' Before Cal could decide whether or not to intervene, the tears were suddenly gone. Leaning against Malashenko, Badanova giggled at Cal's discomfiture. The SPARTAN-II's confusion deepened as Malashenko grinned.

The sergeant chuckled as he playfully mussed Badanova's hair. 'I am sorry, Petty Officer. This one just loves to make trouble. Her brain is rotten from too much television programming.' Pouting, Aleksandra playfully elbowed him in the ribs.

'I see,' Cal said slowly, even if she didn't. Wisely deciding to change the subject, she pointed at one of the stringed instruments, which had a roughly delta-shaped body. 'But what is that instrument, over there?' The couple turned to look.

'Which one,' Aleksandra asked, 'the one that Grigoriy is holding?' Cal nodded.

'That is the _balalaika_,' Kulya answered. 'It is cousin of stringed instruments like lute, or the mandolin.'

'Like a guitar?' Aleksandra queried. Malashenko shook his head.

'_Nyet_. It has fewer strings than the popular Spanish guitar, if I remember correctly.' The sergeant smiled at Cal. 'Do you play, Cal?' His smile waned, however, at the look of desolation on the Spartan's face. He and Badanova shared concerned glances—the medic had seen it, too.

'No,' the blonde replied, 'I…' She paused, sighing quietly. 'I'm sorry. I should go.'

'I see,' Malashenko shrugged. 'Well, feel free to stop in any time, Cal. We are with Alpha Company of the Forty-First Infantry Regiment's First Battalion on Reach. We could write to each other…'

The Spartan murmured her assent. 'Maybe.'

'It was nice to meet you,' Badanova added kindly. 'I hope we meet again.'

'Thank you,' Cal mumbled as she left the warehouse. The two Army non-coms watched her go before sharing another concerned look and rejoining their comrades.

A feeling of empty bitterness formed in Cal's gut as she made her way back to the fence she'd jumped earlier. She couldn't help but wonder.

_Why…?_

_**End** _

_Additional Notes: _Yeah, I have no idea where I was going with this. It was mostly an exercise in characterization, character interactions, so on and so forth. It's kind of tough to do, being a shut-in and recluse. :P What will I randomly write about next time? No floggin' idea. _  
_


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